


Nice Coat Wanna Fuck?

by lovelessly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Breathplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reposted from the APH anonymous meme, a sort of dare, sort of tribute to two roleplayers, I don't even remember who they were, it's been that long since I wrote this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Coat Wanna Fuck?

Denmark liked the coat that France wore. He wanted to touch the material, feel the texture of the thick fabric under his fingers, its hand and weave. He liked the deep blue-violet color, the color of the eastern horizon just as the sun sets on a clear evening, the color of the ocean water halfway between surface and abyss. And the weird little cape thing, how it flowed across the shoulders just so. The belt, cinching at the waist, all dark tanned leather and shiny brass. He wondered how it would sound unbuckled, falling to the ground with a nice metallic clink. Upon further thought, he also wondered why the coat’s front panels were buttoned back like that, did he need easy access for something? Oh, or maybe France was just easy, that must be it, haha. Denmark had to suppress a snigger at his own cleverness. 

Norway, who was unfortunately assigned to sit by him despite sending in several pages of complaints, scooted a little further away, recognizing that look and thankful he was not the object this time.

As for France, he never cared much about what anyone else wore, and why should he? When he already knew that 1) his fashions were superior in every way, and 2) their clothes would look much better on the floor. Hah.

But perhaps he should have paid more attention on this particular day, when a tall northern nation, reintroducing himself as Denmark, gave him a significant look that, for once, meant what he wanted it to mean.

France touched a gloved finger to his lips in what would normally be a flirty look on a woman but only succeeded in making him look more deranged than usual, and nodded, are you crazy, man, of course I want to screw. Denmark smiled back in a manner he thought seductive, but would be more accurately described as piss-in-your-pants-frightening by certain former satellite nations. Score.

The meeting concluded without further incident, and left to their own devices in the now empty conference room, the two nations began a strange and exotic mating ritual. Which went thusly…

“Nice coat, wanna fuck?”

“Sure.”

The consequent making-out was dirty, shameless, all taking and no giving, the kind of hungry half bite, half kiss of a man who knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. In a mockery of romance, France wrapped his arms about the other’s broad shoulders, standing on tip-toe to do so, and hands thus occupied, was not able to prevent Denmark from unbuckling his belt too quickly, whipping it off and tossing it on a nearby chair.

Eventually Denmark had France pinned under him, holding him flat against the conference table on top of someone’s papers, trapping one of the smaller man’s legs in between his own. He drew back and looked down at the other nation’s smirking flushed face and damp swollen lips, satisfied at his handiwork.

Bunching his fingers on the capelet’s loose fabric, Denmark moved his hands up over the shoulders, towards the throat, then pressed down on the skin and cartilage there. With almost sadistic delight, he tightened his hold on France’s neck, enough so the other could just barely breathe, then shifted his weight heavily onto the now struggling body below his. Yeah, he liked those faint raspy gasps for air, Denmark thought, and every buck and wriggle just excited him further, until he was soon panting from the effort of holding back. France’s hands were pulling at his, trying vainly to free himself, and his other leg was digging into Denmark’s side, attempting to pry them apart.

“Is that the best you can do? I know you can do better!” he hissed over the panicked gurgling noises.

France responded by reaching up to clutch at his hair, to gouge at his eyes, to tear at his nostrils. Denmark moved his face out of the way and laughed, halfway to insanity, fueled by the growing needy ache in his vital regions.

“Are you giving up already?! Fight, c’mon, fight me!” he roared, giving the other nation a violent shake. Because he could, he upped the ante, took one hand off the throat and moved it over the mouth, to cut off even more oxygen, to drive France to the desperation he wanted to witness. Wide blue eyes stared back up into his, glittering wet, frustrated, hateful, perfect. With another laugh, Denmark leaned forward to taste the hot salty drops sliding down the sides of France’s face.

Then France’s scrabbling fingers closed down on the discarded belt, and he hit Denmark on the side of the head, buckle-edge first, as hard as he could.

Cursing, Denmark released him, and touched the growing bruise on his forehead. That really fucking hurt, but it did not lessen his arousal one bit. In fact… Heh.

France meanwhile had rolled onto his side, gasping for air. Once he had gotten his breath back, he shifted slightly and glared at Denmark through tangles of golden hair.

“You know, I had a knife in my boot, if you weren’t so damn eager, we could have done it properly…” France’s voice was harsh from the damage, croaky like the frog England always called him, but he sounded amused as well. After all, he enjoyed this kind of foreplay, relished, anticipated it, would often initiate it himself whenever regular kinky sex got too boring. Which was most of the time nowadays.

“We can still do it,” Denmark replied, shrugging casually. “C’mere…” he motioned, sitting down on a chair, probably Germany’s, legs spread. Grinning, France obliged, settling onto the other’s lap, tucking his own legs on either side of Denmark’s hips, shivering slightly when he felt a cooling damp spot through the fabric of his still-dry pants.

“So tell me, were you this horny as a Viking?” France asked softly, making himself comfortable by making the other slightly uncomfortable, as only the country of l’amour could do.

“Hah, of course, maybe more!” Denmark chuckled to himself, his heartbeat already racing remembering those days of terror, and not from the nation in his lap grinding purposefully against his vital regions. “And you, do you get all frantic like that when the sex doesn’t go your way?”

France lowered his gaze, the smile playing on his lips just fractionally cooler than before. “But mon ami, it almost always goes my way, in the end.” The way he said those words, they sounded like fact, and a promise of things to come.

Hands supporting the other at the waist, Denmark tried to not go cross-eyed watching as France slowly unknotted his tie, tried to not gag during the brief moment that the other not-so-accidentally tightened it around his neck, tried to not hold that slip against one so well-versed in the, ah, art of sadism. Deliberately, France began unbuttoning the long black trenchcoat, loosening the scarlet shirt underneath to slide long cold fingers against surprisingly hot skin. Though when he tried to slip the coat entirely off, Denmark made a warning growl, and he left the coat in place.

“Any reason why you’re being so damn quiet?” Denmark finally grumbled, tearing his focus away from the fingers brushing over his now-bare chest, those clever hands lighting up hot trails of desire throughout his body. “England tells me you’re real loud, the whole time.” A change from Norway, he had believed.

France paused in his teasing, looking vaguely insulted, but he could not come up with a proper answer so instead he asked, “And why are you thinking about England?” Seeing as that was more America’s job. Or Canada’s…

“I know you are, no matter who you’re sleeping with,” he shot back. But an idea, a fantastic idea, struck him and Denmark smiled again. “I wouldn’t worry, though, cuz I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you’ll think only of me every time you lie down.”

Rolling his eyes, France snorted. “That I’d like to see, mon cher.”

“You don’t think I can do it?” Denmark’s hand crept down to his own waist, undoing the button and fly with ease.

Glancing down appreciatively, France thought that the cocky – hah - nation might not actually be boasting. Well, he had his own ways of regaining control of the situation.

A few seconds later, the smirk disappeared from Denmark’s face, to be replaced with a slightly forced grin, reflected on the lovingly sharpened knife France had pulled out.

“Wh-what are you planning to do with that?”

“Just some harmless playing, nothing… permanent.” France tilted his head to one side, looking much too innocent for a self-proclaimed whore. “Unless you want out now?”

“Hell no.” Even though the rest of his body, including his brain, disagreed vehemently with this statement, only his aching cock had the deciding vote.

“That, my friend, was the correct answer.”

Oh so slowly, France traced the tip of the knife over Denmark’s chest and abdomen, raising red welts in a pretty pattern, not breaking the skin just yet. The taller nation held back a shudder with admirable self-restraint, but he urgently needed that bastard’s hands on him, like now. Without even realizing it, he bucked his hips upward at the same time that the knife was making its path over his heart.

“Ah- what the fuck?! You cut me!”

“Oh, pardonnez moi! Please allow me to make amends.” He did not wait for an answer, just ducked his head and licked at the blood beading on the skin, drawing out a long shuddering sigh. Thus encouraged, France sucked harder, pressing his tongue over the hardening nipple and looking up through long lashes to meet the other nation’s gaze.

Fuck this, Denmark thought, I need to fuck him now.

Fortunately, France was ready to be fucked, and they immediately got down to the business of doing so, this time right where Estonia had been sitting. Thoughtful as ever, Denmark swept the laptop off the conference table, shoved France into its former location, yanking his pants down and then thrusting hard. Dammit, that felt too good to be real, he thought, deaf to the answering grunts and passionate moans beneath him. It was hot, unbearably so, since he was still wearing all of his clothes, as well as the full length trenchcoat, and he could feel the rough material of France’s military coat all bunched up and brushing against the sensitive skin of his stomach, tickling at the cut on his chest if he leaned in too close. His only regret was that no one was watching, and he almost wished he hadn’t destroyed the laptop, so that he could have turned the webcam on, hit record, and have all of the anonymous folks on the internet staring at him, worshipping him with their eyes, giving him the attention he craved.


End file.
